


ZevWarden Week 2016

by olliolli_oxenfree



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 15:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21340267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olliolli_oxenfree/pseuds/olliolli_oxenfree
Summary: Previously unposted fills from 2016. Some rewrites + bonus day six which I had to skip at the time. Non-linear timeline. Chapter three is rated M for spicy content and chapter four remains my favorite thing I've ever written.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Mahariel, Zevran Arainai/Male Mahariel, Zevran Arainai/Male Warden, Zevran Arainai/Warden
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. First Impressions

“Crone, check him.”

“_Excuse_ me?”

“I am no healer. _Clearly_ he sustained great head trauma in our last fight.”

Terron resisted the urge to roll his eyes, settling instead for assuring Wynne all was well as Alistair spoke in hushed tones to Sten. Morrigan curled her lip at his insistence and stalked off to her secluded fire. “Really, I’m fine,” he told the elder mage as she angled his head this way and that with fingertips cooled with healing magic. “He might need it, though.”

Wynne glanced over at the newest addition to the group. “I see. And how did you find him?”

“He tried to kill us.”

Zevran shrugged. “It’s true.”

Wynne’s eyes widened. “Warden—”

“—a word.”

“Yes, Sten?”

Terron pulled away from Wynne and circled the fire pit dug into the best approximation of middle the ramshackle camp offered. Alistair hung back in the qunari’s shadow, looking at Terron beseechingly while Sten attempted to change his mind.

“This is foolish.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“Your enemy sends hired swords to kill you, and you invite them to join your cause.”

“No stranger than releasing a murderous qunari from a cage and inviting _him_.” The silence stretched until Sten relented, turning his head to the side with a grunt. Terron leaned over and narrowed his eyes at Alistair. “Anything to stop the Blight, _right_?”

“…Right.”

“Should he try—”

“Then I’m sure I’ll be the first to know and you’ll all have fun lecturing my corpse.”

Alistair left his cover behind Sten, face flustered. “But...you’ll really let him join us? Just like that?” Terron arched a brow. “_Why_?”

Why, indeed? Nothing had set Zevran apart from the rest. It was hardly the first time anyone had begged for mercy, though they were happy enough to be sent fleeing another direction. Terron had a nagging suspicion if it _had_ been any other to survive the assault he wouldn’t have bothered.

He missed the familiarity of other elves.

“Well,” he placed a hand on Alistair’s arm before bringing both up in a stretch, “since you’re all being paranoid for me, I’m turning in. Wake me for the third watch, will you?”


	2. AU Day

They are sailing back to familiar waters tomorrow. Supplies are running low, and even Isabela can no longer drum up reasons to stay that outweigh the reasons to leave. Isabela keeps spirits up by opening the crates of wine taken from a merchant’s ship some years ago. It’s terrible at getting a man inebriated, but a few drinks leaves the mouth tasting of fruit for days. Isabela only brings it out on special occasions and it’s the idea of the wine rather than the wine itself that has half the crew drunk. Zevran takes a sip, decides revelry is not for him tonight, and excuses himself above deck with the taste of berries on lips and tongue.

Patchwork clouds chase themselves across the sky. The moon is bright, but the new moon was two nights ago and any cloud that crosses it turns the ocean dark. Zevran leans against the railing of the stern and watches the reflection of stars in the waves. Two blink in and out of existence, and a head and pair of shoulders rise from beneath the waves. “Hello,” Zevran greets. He crouches between the end planks of railing, decides it isn’t close enough, and lies on his stomach.

“We are leaving in the morning,” he states with his chest propped on crossed arms. “I suppose your elderly and children will be happy to see the sky again. If they exist at all.”

Something is chattered up at him in the language the mer-folk share, and the head disappears. The rope by Zevran’s side tightens, and the merman appears once again. Hand over hand, up the hull of the ship. He stops eye level with Zevran, and Zevran marvels at the strength in those arms able to hold the deadweight of the tail above water. Zevran leans out until the width of his shoulders halt him.

“I shall miss the delights of your home, of course. You, I think, I will miss the most. Assuming the truth is we are not already dead. That would be how the stories end, you know. We were dashed across rocks some stormy eve, or the Empress’s fleet caught us and we were all killed horrifically in the fight. Our paradise is found, but because we are none the wiser we leave in the morning fog and never find our paradise again. Tales are told in ports of a new ghost ship and we are otherwise forgotten.” A smile crooks Zevran’s lips. There has been no fog here, and with the party Isabela is throwing it will be mid afternoon by the time they are ready to sail.

“I wonder, can you understand at all what I am saying?”

“_Can you?_ ”

There is no way of knowing, of course, if that is truly the reply. But that is what the tone carries. Zevran watches the merman’s features as the clouds and moon take turns lighting them. Up close, his pointed ears are smaller than they first appeared. His eyes glow like those of the ship’s cats when the moon is gone, and retain a glint of film when it returns. Zevran’s gaze settles on the other’s mouth. His own parts on a word unuttered, and he realizes the merman’s gaze has done the same. The eyes of the other meet with his, and Zevran wishes with the hopes of a man far younger than he that the ship stop rocking, the clouds stop moving, and the entire world stop spinning so he can tell if the man’s top half is flesh or scale. Another cloud obscures the moon.

Zevran does not move in the dark. It lasts less than a handful of seconds before the light is back. Strong hands adjust their grip so the merman can better hold his weight. Zevran’s lips taste of salt.


	3. In the Tent

“One more?” Zevran asked, trailing his fingers down the Warden’s thigh. Terron glanced over his shoulder, ears tucked back and eyes lidded. If Zevran didn’t know any better he would have sworn the man’s hum was a purr.

“Yes, please.”

Zevran’s hand came down with a final _crack_. Terron’s pleased sigh broke on a moan. Zevran resumed stroking the reddened flesh as he waited for Terron’s breathing to even again. His fingers dipped into the cleft of the Warden’s ass and were rewarded with a low groan for the briefest of touches. It was borderline absurd how sensitive the Warden was there. Perhaps…

“I’ve another proposition, if you will indulge me.”

Terron looked back once more. His cheeks remained flushed, but his eyes were clear and focused when he gave a grin. “Sure.”

Zevran had him lift his hips so he could move his own legs, then moved behind while ensuring Terron kept his balance as Zevran reached out to adjust his stance. He stroked the small of the Warden’s back before gripping his hips.

“Tell me if you wish to stop.”

His lips quirked up at the Warden’s snort. It was difficult to imagine Terron allowing anything he might be uncomfortable with to continue, but Zevran never failed to give him that safety net. Especially with the Warden’s preference for being _shown_ what Zevran planned to do. “‘Course.”

Zevran nipped the Warden’s tailbone as a sign of what was to come. The first press of his tongue had Terron lurching forward with a loud curse, hips pushing back the same time Zevran pulled away to check that things were all right. “Don’t stop,” Terron gasped before Zevran could ask, “keep go—_ahh_, fuck!” His head dropped onto his arms when Zevran continued, gasps and moans interspersed with curses from both the King’s tongue and the Dalish language. Well then. Had he known, Zevran would have introduced this sooner. As it was, he was more than happy to continue moving his tongue in lazy shapes while Terron shuddered under his ministrations.

When he sealed his lips around the ring of flesh and sucked, he thought the Warden might shatter. Terron’s back bowed into a beautiful arch as he tossed his head with a shout. It didn’t take long after that, even with the infamous stamina of the Grey Wardens on his side. His head was down once again, head pressed into a wolf’s pelt as his fingers clenched and unclenched on the edge of the bedroll. Zevran loosened his grip, thinking to jerk Terron to orgasm. Before either hand left his hips, however, Terron gave a sharp cry and his come spurted across the furs.

For one who enjoyed prolonging his afterglow, Terron was quick to pull himself from it when he wished. He rose on arms that were already steady and let out a soft, “Damn,” when he saw the pelt. It was far from ruined, but cleanup seemed a steep inconvenience.

“Well,” Zevran clasped the Warden’s shoulder, “I suppose you would not be opposed to trying that again?”

Terron laughed. The snickering, eyes-shut laugh Zevran had come to associate with true mirth. “Oh, we are _definitely_ trying that again.” His eyes opened and his head tilted to the side. “If you want to?”

Zevran pulled the Warden closer, lips brushing Terron’s neck. “Absolutely.”

“_Ugh_.”

Terron brought a hand up. His nose crinkled in distaste when he glanced down at the spunk coating his fingers. Cold already, then? Zevran’s suspicions were confirmed when Terron wiped his hand on the soiled pelt and tossed it aside. The Warden then glanced back to him, his eyes flicking down and back so fast Zevran almost missed it.

“You’re still hard.”

Zevran spread his hands wide in what might have otherwise been a shrug. “That I am. Comes with eating such a marvelous ass.”

There was a show of sharp teeth in the smile Terron gave him. “Want some help?”

“If you are offering.”

The Warden slid into Zevran’s waiting arms. His teeth latched onto Zevran’s collarbone as he pushed them onto clean furs. Zevran tangled a hand in Terron’s hair as he began biting his way down Zevran’s body. Zevran’s own teeth sank into his lip when Terron’s tongue wrapped around the head of his cock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see every single one of you who chose the "Do you know what you need?"/"A horse?" dialogue and every single one of us is so damn valid.


	4. Reunions

He misses mud.

An odd sentiment to possess, perhaps, but one Zevran carries regardless. Here in Antiva City, spilled blood and fallen rain are washed away. Even the packed earth of the alleyways is little more than the inconvenience of wet sand. So very unlike Denerim, where even the streets leading to the castle turn to muck at the slightest notion of clouds.

Mud is disgusting. It gets everywhere and turns fine boots to a caked mess and he was forever scraping it off some new patch of skin during the Blight. Yet he misses it. When his daggers nick and blood falls he still looks and expects to see dirt take on the red hue. Dust rises instead, and he wonders if the city was always so dry.

Then he remembers himself, and scrapes over the patch of earth to hide the evidence of his deed. A Crow will be assumed, a Crow is always assumed, but death between members of the Guild will take notice. Not on the first, or second, or third, but the Masters will stir when the deaths keep piling. Too much infighting is bad for business, and rouge Crows are always dealt with swiftly. He wonders if they already know he’s left Ferelden.

He misses the cold.

The first time he realizes this, he nearly botches an ambush by dropping his blade. It is not the frigid air so much as the ease it lends working in the shadows. There is no soft crunch of frost, no plume of foggy breath to alert him to a nearby presence. Instead, his ears and eyes must strain for more subtle nuances. A gleam of metal, the whisper of fabric in the breeze.

He consoles himself with the reminder that his own position cannot be betrayed in such a way. It comes down to a challenge of talent rather than a test of patience, and Zevran is an expert in both. There is always the rustle of fabric when his target moves, always the glint of a blade being drawn too early. He is always ready.

Soon he draws them into a game. For so many days he will remain in an area, staying still so long his entire body becomes one cramped muscle before deciding on the time to strike. Then he will move on: a new section of Antiva City and a new method of ending his quarry. The Crows now openly seek him, as openly as they do anything, but he has learned something of hunting in the wilds of Ferelden. So long as they cannot predict his movements he stays ahead.

He misses the darkspawn.

He misses the simplicity in those fights. Stab and slice until dead, then repeat. There was no setup, no fallback plan, no need for an escape route should a quick getaway be necessary. And there is, always, an eventual end to darkspawn.

It is like plunging once more into the Deep Roads, being in the city. No end to his foe in sight. One falls and another rises to take their place. Not to say he is not enjoying himself. Zevran has always found pleasure in the act of killing. At times it is the satisfaction of a job well done, at times it is the simple fact he has killed a person in need of it.

But it is exhausting, this war he has started with the Crows. Once a battle with darkspawn was complete, he could find solace in a warm meal or a well-won rest. With the Crows, he is always on guard. Full sleep is not something he’s had since crossing the Fereldan border, and warm meals require a fire as sure to give him away as lighting a beacon.

He misses Ferelden’s hunting, while he’s at it.

He misses news.

Reliable news. Gossip in Antiva City is as common as it is in Ferelden, and there is always something to hear when one pays attention. When he first arrives, he uses it as he should. He learns what has transpired in his absence, what nonsense the Crows have been up to while he’s been away.

In his second month back, he happens across an inn frequented by the city’s Grey Wardens. Their talk is always specific, and none are fool enough to interrupt their speech. Their presence alone hushes nearby conversations to strained whispers and long drinks. Zevran takes a risk by frequenting the tavern. There are still reports of darkspawn incursions in the south, and as the weeks go by they become increasingly impressed that the new King Alistair has not been assassinated yet despite the former queen being ousted from the throne.

“He was one of us,” a woman with the tattoos of the Circle and the accent of Nevarra declares. “Of course he is not dead.”

A bulky man takes a long swig. “You sure? Might have something to do with that elf.”

The Nevarran woman’s pointed ears stand in anger at the tone the man uses. Zevran stands to go. In the night air Zevran worries the wooden beads of the necklace given to him before his departure. The worry settles, makes him hazard a letter to Amaranthine. It becomes more personal than he intended, a part of him certain it will land in treacherous hands the moment the messenger bird takes flight, but the thought it will arrive to its intended recipient overrides his will to stay his words. There is not that much to be gleaned, truly. The Crows already know he is here.

He all but flings the poor bird from the window before he gives into the temptation to include anything that might give away whom the letter is meant for. Keeping him safe is the entire reason Zevran returned to Antiva. Quite the job he’d make of it if he returned to find his message had a body count.

Perhaps he should catch the bird.

He misses the dog.

The mabari had a seventh sense for danger. Maybe, in its infinite wisdom, it would have found some way to communicate to Zevran that he has followed a terribly stupid impulse. He had met with the Guildmaster. Could have walked off, even. Found some comfort in a tenuous and false momentary truce. Instead, the Guildmaster is dead.

Now there is no more pretense. Every ear and eye in or attached to the guild is attuned to him. No more one-on-one or partners against a turncoat. They come for him in groups. He snatches sleep where and when he can, buys fruit from the vendors closest to the shadows of the markets’ edges, steals what he has to. There is no place safe for him now, his old haunts torn to pieces and new territory making him wary.

When they finally corner him, it takes fifteen. Eighteen, if counting the citizens not of the guild who aid them. He runs them on a merry chase that lasts until the moons sink in the sky in the hours between midnight and morning. Six are dead by his hand before the remaining Crows run him to a dead end.

_Ah._

To his dwindling credit, Zevran does not panic. He is too focused for the distraction. He dodges a thrown blade, lobs two of his own and fells one. The other sinks into a shoulder. He hopes—but no, the tendon is not torn. Already Zevran’s hands grip the next pair of daggers. The Crow he did not kill spins the blade reddened by their blood. Their good arm draws back to fling. An arrow sprouts from the wounded shoulder.

The shock of that almost deters Zevran from his target. The Crow recovers of course, what is one measly arrow compared to their training, but before they regain their balance Zevran recognizes the fletching. His grin borders on manic as he plunges into the guild.

His body follows the patterns it developed in Ferelden. No cunning cuts or wicked poisons, just stabs and jabs until they fall like so many darkspawn. Blood splatters him freely; red and untainted by corruption. The arrows give him cover, either picking off one his back was turned to or selecting his next target. Not a shot is wasted. The last Crow falls and the archer drops from his perch atop a roof. Terron’s eyes flash in the dim light as he gives the shadows a cursory glance.

“What are you _wearing_?”

Well. Not the first thing one wishes to hear from a lover’s mouth after nearly eight months apart. Zevran is hardly remiss.

“Marvelous, isn’t it?” He spreads his arms wide and doesn’t spin only because he worries it will snag. Terron’s eyes shut as he snickers.

“You look ridiculous.”

“I look _marvelous_.”

Terron shakes his head and walks to him, feet placed directly before the other in a wolf’s saunter. The braid in his bangs is gone, despite how fastidious he’d been in keeping it neat and tight through the duration of the Blight. The part is absent too, hair instead pushed back from his forehead. Zevran takes it as a personal challenge to see if he can still find any curled strands.

“How did you find me?” Zevran figures it only fair he gets a turn at questions. “You do not speak Antivan.”

“I don’t.” Terron stops before him and sweet Maker the man is _taller_. The increase is slight, but Zevran is looking _up_ at him now. “There are enough Wardens here that do.” Terron chuckles, eyes darting to the side to some imagined wonder. “There’s quite a lot of us in nations that haven’t kicked us out.”

“Or ensured the entirety of your order was slain,” Zevran can’t help but reminding him. “Nearly the entirety, anyway.”

“Nearly. Didn’t quite manage to get the last of us. Don’t suppose you’ve heard of the Crows? Terrible assassins.” Zevran laughs at that. A high, throaty laughter that lightens his burdens of the past months to almost nothing. Terron’s gaze returns to Zevran’s clothing. “Is the cape necessary?”

“Absolutely. The Grey Wardens did not help you cross the desert, _amor_.”

“The Dalish did.”

Of course. Warden he may be, Terron is still an elf of the Dales. Even Antiva’s Dalish would not turn him away. “I cannot imagine they were as welcoming as your Ferelden clans have been.”

An uncomfortable hum leaves the man. At least it isn’t just wayward elves of the city the desert clans give a wary treatment. “We help when one of our own asks,” something close to an apology is in Terron’s tone as he taps his right cheekbone to sign “_vallaslin_”. “I sought the Wardens when I reached the city. You stirred the Crows so much even they took notice. Though, if I’d known to look for _that_ I would have found you sooner.” He points to the bird skull mask atop Zevran’s head. “I hope you weren’t going for subtle.”

“When, for all I knew, you would choose once more to play the dashing hero? I had to make it easy for you to find me.”

“I’m a hunter.” Terron’s fore and middle fingers reach out to stroke the tattoos on the side of Zevran’s face, and oh _oh_ how he has missed that touch. The finger guards catch on his cheek and Terron brushes his thumb across the line of ink above Zevran’s eye. “I will always find you, _vhenan_.”

Zevran’s throat shuts on his response. It has been so _long_ since anyone he’s so much as looked at hasn’t tried to stick a knife in him. The simple gesture has him undone. Terron smiles, as soft as his caress, and lifts the mask with the knuckles of his free hand.

At the first press of lips against his Zevran pulls Terron close, arms around his shoulders to keep him where Zevran can feel him. Terron’s left hand slides past the hood to tangle itself in Zevran’s hair while the right continues to press soothing lines down Zevran’s cheek. Zevran can’t help the smile that turns the kiss into a mess.

He has missed his Warden.


	5. Earring

There is a blue stone in the Warden’s ear. It has drawn Zevran’s attention more than once during his months in Ferelden. Something has taken over him of late, a feeling that settles low and heavy in his gut when he thinks of the Warden. Not that their dalliance has not been fun, but in recent weeks Zevran has found himself looking more and more for the times he and Terron may merely share the other’s presence. There is a quiet peace between them when they sit and pass the hours of a joint watch. Zevran stops watching the shadows, instead observing the Warden as he carves halla and wolves from small blocks of wood or fletches a new batch of arrows with the feathers of a ptarmigan.

“You should use pigeon,” Zevran tells him once. “I’m sure Shale would thank you.”

His Warden laughs. “Until they mistake me for one, you mean.”

Most unnerving of all is how _the_ Warden is gradually becoming _his_ Warden.

Zevran focuses these emotions on the stone. He knows why. He has gone again and again through what little possessions he has to find some, any, way of repaying what the Warden has given him. It is laughably little, what he owns. He possessed little more than the clothes on his back when he lived in Antiva and left most of it behind. He still possesses little more than that, and what he has now the Warden is to thank.

The only thing he owns of any equal value is the earring.

He broaches the subject one night after their watch has ended but before exhaustion hits. Zevran lifts his head from the Warden’s chest—and when had he started sleeping like _that_—to ask, “I’ve a question, if I may.”

Terron looks at him, the light of the fire outside enough they can still see each other’s features. “‘Course.”

The ear Terron has pierced is on the right, and Zevran lies on the left. He lifts himself on his arms to slide over the Warden until he is on the correct side. “Is there a special meaning behind the stone in your ear?”

For a moment Terron is silent. He sits, and Zevran worries he has touched on something painful. “Not _special_, no, but…” Terron leans over the furs, collects the small pouch he carries on his belt. He opens the draw strings and tips out an earring of purple stone.

Oh, _oh_, he should not have asked this.

Zevran remembers all too well the grief, the anguish they had watched the Warden succumb to when the band of darkspawn found their camp. Terron had buried the body, but first he’d removed the jewelry. Zevran should not have been so careless as to forget.

“We are each given one of these when we become hunters. We earn our _vallaslin_, and once we have joined a hunting master they give us the piercing.”

“Do all clans do this?” Zevran asks, thinking he would have noticed more such accessories during their time in the forest.

“Just mine, to my knowledge. We did not always hunt the Brecilian. We lived in the Frostbacks when I was young. Our storyteller says we made enough there for hunters to receive one in both ears if they wished. The stones of the forest aren’t suited for it, so our traditions changed.” Terron sighs through his nose. “We collect them when a hunter dies so there are enough to be given.”

Zevran remains silent as Terron slides the stone back in the pouch and puts it away. “It sounds special.”

Terron shrugs. “Tradition and memory are all we have left. _Those_ are special. Not objects.”

_What a loss they suffered, when you joined the Wardens._

Zevran hesitates before putting a hand on his Warden’s shoulder. A late condolence is better than none. “I am sorry, what happened to your friend.”

Terron smirks, devoid of mirth and far too resigned a look for one so young. His thumb brushes over the blemish on his chest. “Me, too.”

The fire’s glow has dimmed enough even they have trouble seeing when Terron speaks again, curled on his side and facing the opposite wall of the tent. “Zevran?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”


	6. Sparring

There was, Zevran discovered, a trick or two to staying on even playing ground when sparring with a warden. The first was that they must already be exhausted by other fights. Having one thrash him, however soundly, was hardly as satisfying if they walked away without breaking so much as a sweat. The second was to catch them with a weapon they only had secondary knowledge in. This was important, as in hand-to-hand combat that trisky business of endurance came into play. So it was he approached Terron after watching him work the hottest part of the day away with Sigrun and Velanna.

“I don’t suppose you’d be up for one more?” he asked as Terron finished off a waterskin by dumping its contents over his head.

His Warden pushed a few errant bangs back from his face. His breathing was heavy, but his voice was even as he rolled his limbs. “Depends on what you have in mind.” Zevran grinned and presented a dagger in each hand. Neither were as well-made as any in Zevran’s personal collection, nor the few Terron kept, but they would serve. “Really?” Terron reached for one regardless, “After you _just_ saw Velanna bring me to the ground more times than I could count?”

Zevran passed him the blade handle first. “_Twice_ isn’t so high, _amor_. We’ll go to seven?”

“...Seven.”

Zevran got the first hit in, taking advantage of Terron’s proclivity for distance in fights by rushing chest to chest with him. “One,” he hit Terron with the pommel above his kidney. Terron flipped the tables immediately, kicking a leg between Zevran’s and knocking him off balance. He wound up back to front with Terron, the warden’s wrist turned outwards so sunlight flashed off the dagger and flesh pressed against Zevran’s throat.

“One.”

“Two.” Zevran separated enough to show the hilt pointed at Terron’s stomach.

Terron chuckled. "Two."

Three and four were on Terron’s arm and inner leg. Terron caught up to four with a mock-blow to Zevran’s temple that came too close for comfort and called them off for a short rest. Zevran was panting as badly as Terron. For his part, Terron certainly looked far more pleased than he had dealing with Amaranthine’s Banns that morning.

“Good to keep going?” It wasn’t quite in place yet, but that incorrigible smile was working its way back onto Terron’s face.

“So long as you are.”

Five had both of them on the ground: Terron flat on his back but able to push himself up for number six over Zevran’s heart. Zevran fell with enough leverage to pull Terron back down with him and get his sixth strike at Terron’s side. They untangled to help one another up only for Terron to lunge back to a distance safely outside Zevran’s reach.

Zevran was fast coming to the end of his stamina, and the longer Terron avoided capture the more his plateaued out.

So. How to get closer before his winning strategy backfired?

“You’re so far _away_, Terron.”

Terron made an abrupt movement, looking rather as if he couldn’t decide if he felt more betrayed by Zevran or himself. Terron cocked his head slightly and took Zevran off-guard by rushing forward. Zevran had the air knocked out of him with a grunt, and he found himself scrabbling to get the hilt of his blade against Terron’s stomach as he was pinned with one of the warden’s arms pressed against his throat.

“_Seven_.”


	7. Post-game

The halls of Vigil’s Keep are silent. Summer is leaching back into the land, and the residents are out enjoying the sun’s warmth. Their shouts and laughter bounce off the stone until the sounds are flung inside. Distant but welcoming. Terron did not let them see him return. He has spent the better part of two years restoring the fortress, he knows how to come and go without notice. Tomorrow he will make his presence known. For now he needs rest.

His mind is buzzing. Part of it is an actual buzzing: a sound that is sometimes a half-forgotten voice and sometimes movement in the wind. He can still ignore it. Instead, he lets the exhaustion of his journey overtake his steps. Who knew he’d be so willing to trek across Ferelden just for a brief conversation with Morrigan?

_Even the most insufferable of us is still clan._ How fond Fenarel had been of that saying.

Jumbled thoughts make his progression through the Keep one of memory. The eluvians keep to the forefront. Ariane promised to have word sent through the clans to reach his own. Merrill would fall over herself to have a part of their history restored. The thought puts a smile on his face. He will need to tell Velanna.

Pup whines, high and sharp, and he looks down to discover his fingers are digging into the mabari’s scruff. A muted apology is offered, and the dog licks his hand to show there is no ill will. The dog is just as weary as he. He’ll have to think of a better reward for the hound than just the bones of his kill. The least he can do for a dog willing to follow him through the Deep Roads. Though Pup seems content enough to lie at his side when the day is done. Mabari are like that.

Stone and shadows keep the inner rooms cool. At this time of day, he is shocked to find theirs empty. Of course. _Summer_. He considers turning, going to the courtyard. Daunting is the thought of walking the length of the Keep again, however, and the knowledge that entering the grounds will mean _everyone_ will know of his arrival…

Terron crosses the room. Closes the curtains over the window that throws sunlight across the bed. Pup hits the ground with a grunt of satisfaction. His bow is stored safely and his pack dropped. His fingers reach for the clasps of his armor; failing the first two attempts he gives it up as a lost cause. He falls onto the bed and rolls over as sleep takes him.

* * *

Zevran is an oddity at the Keep. He is no member of the Silver Order, no worker to serve inside the walls, and no remaining refugee from after the Blight. He is also no warden, but that is where he has found himself making friends. The wardens of Vigil’s Keep are split into two groups. The first, wardens that Terron has recruited. Among these are the ones who either defended the Keep or Amaranthine when the warring tribes of darkspawn divided their small numbers. Zevran has found most of his friendships there. That Terron views them much the same is no coincidence.

The second group Zevran has made himself room in for necessity rather than camaraderie, a dagger behind every smile he shares. These wardens are recruited via other means, most joining the ranks those few occasions Terron has been away. When they returned from Antiva to discover two of Terron’s closest friends dead by templars who had infiltrated the wardens, Terron had eliminated those who were left.

Not immediately, of course. His Warden is far crueler than he lets on. More and more disappear or are slain while completing the tasks Terron gives them. The rest now walk in awe and fear of the Warden Commander. As they should.

He listens to them now, head tilted to bask in the rays of the sun and catch their words. Nothing seems to be stirring within their numbers. One has received word from home. Of transgressions forgiven, of children being born.

Zevran stops listening. He folds his hands together and tries to focus on the novelty of warmth being offered by the southern sun.

He should have gone with Terron. He’d been absolutely flabbergasted by his Warden’s sudden urge to track Morrigan down at the report of a mystery woman skulking about the Korcari Wilds. Zevran had been insistent they stay: why go through the trouble of finding her now when they and she were content to never see each other again?

Zevran still can’t stand the look his Warden had given him then. Because of the child.

Terron’s reasoning is hardly something Zevran doesn’t understand, or even disagrees with. The child is Dalish. It deserves to be raised as such. But, faced with the prospect of meeting it, of having it intrude on the life he has so painstakingly made for himself…

Has he always been such a coward?

It will be worse for his Warden. Yet Zevran has left him to face his demons on his own. A stab of fear freezes his chest. Perhaps Terron did not get the chance to face those demons. Though rare, darkspawn still are sighted in the areas affected by the Blight which _began_ in the very wilds Terron now travels. The mabari is with him, but the darkspawns’ strength is their numbers. He might never learn their fate simply because he did not respect his Warden’s wish to raise his own child.

“Zevran?”

He opens his eyes with a smile, fingers loosening their grip. His nails have left deep indents on both hands. He leans towards Sigrun, ready to share a laugh or help her through a passage in one of the Antivan tomes they discovered in the library.

She glances left and right and he does the same. A group of sparrows have taken the wardens’ place to pick over seeds found in the grass. “I just saw the Commander get back. Looked like he was heading upstairs if you want to catch him.” Sigrun gives a wink, off before he can think to thank her. He remains for a time, listening to the sounds of soldiers being put to work in the training yard. Finally, he stands.

He is not sure what he expects as he walks through the halls to the Arl’s chambers. Terron hates that they are still called such, and makes such a delightful face when anything is addressed by the title that Zevran _has_ to use it. His stomach twists itself into a dozen knots as he nears. Sigrun had not said Terron brought anyone back with him, but she also did not mention the dog.

He just wants the initial confrontation over with.

His heart stops when he opens the door and he nearly laughs—with relief, self-deprecation, anything—at how _normal_ it all is.

Pup is asleep in the sun beam near the hearth. His ears lift as Zevran slides the door shut. The poor mabari must be as exhausted as his master to not check further. The drapes on the other window have been drawn shut. The Warden’s pack has been dropped by the desk, his bow and quiver per usual treated with more care than Terron gives himself. They may as well have returned from Amaranthine.

Terron is curled atop Zevran’s side of the mattress. Strands of hair stick to the sides of his face and the back of his neck. Muck streaks his arms and legs. A new scar is forming beneath his shoulder. His arms are empty.

He does not stir as Zevran slides into bed. When Zevran pulls him close and rests a hand on his chest, the remaining tension drains from his body and he sinks further into sleep. It is hard to feel the rhythm of his breathing through his armor, so Zevran moves his hand to rest in the crook of an elbow where his pulse beats strong and steady.

Zevran presses a lingering kiss to the back of his neck. “Welcome home, Warden.”


End file.
